


Introductions

by therealamphibiousnewt



Category: The Maze Runner (Movies), The Maze Runner Series - James Dashner
Genre: First Time, M/M, Mutual Masturbation, That's it, because this is essentially porn without plot, first time in living memory, i guess, ish?, it's just porn, seriously though
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 09:45:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5412173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therealamphibiousnewt/pseuds/therealamphibiousnewt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Too pent up to sleep," Newt says it like he worries about Thomas's intelligence, "and it turns out the open air and all these shanks sleeping everywhere makes it a bit hard to concentrate."</p><p>Again, vague embarrassment. Heat in his cheeks he can't explain. His eyes flick down at Newt's chest, the way his shirt is see through in the yellow light of the fire.</p><p>"Maybe I can help you concentrate."</p><p>"Do you know what you're offering, Tommy?" Newt laughs again, but there's such fondness in the nickname that a foreign heat furls from the anxious ball in Thomas's chest.</p><p>He remembers a vague idea of attraction, and honestly? It felt a whole lot like this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Introductions

**Author's Note:**

> I'm trying to practice writing smut. I hope I'm not super awful at it.

Having a wiped blank brain is like being a child and elderly all at once, like your brain is an empty receptacle but also peppered with holes, and things sift through it like a sieve instead of sticking. It's inconvenient in a million ways. It's patches of blank, flat grey where there should be names and faces, it's laughing at a joke even though you don't understand why it's funny. It's irritating all the time, in a constant, awful way that's you eventually get used to. And then it's not an instantaneous inconvenience anymore, it's just life. Life is flat grey memories and deep chasms where there should be places and people and things.

And Thomas can adapt to all of this at a mental level, he can get used to the emptiness, the strangeness, the feeling that he's propped up and propelled forward by invisible supports. Brains are pliant, abstract sort of things that can be lived and worked around.

Bodies on the other hand…

It doesn't matter that he's been thrown into some hellish maze, it doesn't matter that he's scared and tired and anxious and hungry. His body is resolutely adolescent, and all that implies. It's a constant nag, a omni-present need for something that simply isn't there.

He can remember being attracted to people. He can remember the concept attraction. He can remember that he kissed someone, once upon a time, but he can't remember who or what they looked like. He can't remember how it felt, only that he felt it. Only that he felt it and it was embarrassingly necessary.

And it's not really an issue for the first few days, he's sore and tired and scared, struggling with the emptiness of his brain. It's not an issue until it suddenly is, and Thomas finds himself lying awake in his bedroll and staring at the never changing constellations in the sky, jittery and warm and confused. Chuck is snoring beside him, and ever little whisper is a grating rattle, reminding him of the seven rocks pressed against his shoulders and back. This isn't working, is it?

He gets out of his bedroll in one smooth movement, like he's been planning it, kicking his pillow off of the ground and wandering off in the aimless direction of the homestead. He can check on the girl or…or probably not do that. He knows she's beautiful, it was the second thing he noticed about her, after the whole…unconscious thing, but the thought makes him feel creepy and strange, because of the whole unconscious thing.

He veers away from the homestead at the last minute, wishing the doors were open and he could just run. Just, sweat all of this out, all of this tension, all of this…pressure to do something or feel something he can't quite remember. But the gates are closed, and running laps around the glade is the definition of pathetic.

"Can't sleep?"

The voice startles him and he jumps, hand on his chest. The motion immediately embarrasses him and he runs his hand through his hair, squinting at the silhouette next to the small, bright campfire. It's Newt, holding what looks like a jar of Gally's brew, some sort of notebook propped against his knee.

"No," Thomas thinks about it for a second, and it takes him longer than it should to decide sitting with Newt is less pathetic than sprinting laps around the glade. "I'm just…antsy, I guess." He sits on the log beside Newt, holding his hands towards the warmth of the fire. "What are you doing up?"

"I can't sleep either," he shrugs, writing something in his notebook and offering Thomas the jar. He takes it, takes a slow, halting sip that he swallows with tears blooming in the corners of his eyes. Newt laughs at that, and shakes his head, "you're never going to get better at that, are you?"

"I'm not sure poisoning myself is something I want to be good at," he hands the jar back and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, wiping away the bitterness. "What are you writing?"

"Nothing," Newt closes the notebook and tucks it into his bag, "crops, mostly, trying to keep track." The maze shifts, a stone on stone grit that reverberates in Thomas's core. Newt grits his teeth, jaw flexing, "can't say that's a bloody lullaby."

"Does it ever stop bugging you?"

Newt shrugs, takes another sip out of the jar, "talking about it twenty-four buggin' hours a day got old years ago."

"What else is there to talk about?" Even as Thomas asks the question, the antsiness returns, the twitching instability in his core that makes him want to run or feel or something.

"Chuck's snoring keeping you awake?" Newt bumps his shoulder against Thomas's, "or are you trying to figure out the whole shuck universe again?"

"Bit of both," Thomas laughs, "I'm this close to cracking the meaning of life but it keeps slipping through my fingers."

Newt shakes his head, the corners of his eyes squinting slightly, like he's thinking hard about something. He takes a gulp from the jar and twists the cap on, setting it aside and turning to Thomas like it's a challenge, "shuck, Greenie, you even make my bloody insomnia feel inadequate," he shakes his head, "I'm awake because I can't get two seconds of shuck privacy inside."

There it is. Gray space where there should be something, vague embarrassment Thomas can't categorize. He feels himself flushing but doesn't know why, running his hand through his hair, "privacy for what?"

"Too pent up to sleep," Newt says it like he worries about Thomas's intelligence, "and it turns out the open air and all these shanks sleeping everywhere makes it a bit hard to concentrate."

Again, vague embarrassment. Heat in his cheeks he can't explain. His eyes flick down at Newt's chest, the way his shirt is see through in the yellow light of the fire.

"Maybe I can help you concentrate."

"Do you know what you're offering, Tommy?" Newt laughs again, but there's such fondness in the nickname that a foreign heat furls from the anxious ball in Thomas's chest.

He remembers a vague idea of attraction, and honestly? It felt a whole lot like this.

Thomas leans in and kisses him, and it's clumsy and strange and foreign, plucking strings connected to memories that aren't there anymore. Newt lets out a sound, a pleasantly surprised 'mmph' as his hand rises to cup Thomas's jaw, to press them more closely together.

Newt takes control of the kiss, that same guiding hand Thomas met when he first ended up in the glade, and Thomas fumbles for a moment when he might have started feeling this way. Maybe it was instant. Maybe it was thirty seconds ago. Either way, it feels too good when Newt's hand cards through his hair, sliding down the back of his neck to hook over his shoulder.

It's rougher than Thomas would have imagined, if he'd taken the time to imagine kissing Newt, occasional collisions of teeth as Newt's tongue delves into his mouth, searching, beseeching. The warmth in Thomas's core builds into an inferno, spreading like molten metal through his limbs, his fingers fisting in the back of Newt's shirt.

"So you aren't entirely bloody clueless," Newt pulls away with a breathless laugh, his thumb dragging along Thomas's cheekbone like an assessment. Thomas leans in again, because he doesn't see a reason to stop, doesn't want to do anything to cool the frantic burn in his chest. He knows he's not getting any sleep with this ember sparking wildly in his stomach.

Newt pulls back again, bracing hand on his shoulder, "slow down for a second, Tommy."

"Why?"

"Because you saying klunk like that," Newt closes his eyes, gasps in a way that makes Thomas think this isn't sudden for him. Thomas likes that thought more than he should, he likes that Newt has been thinking of him like this. "Isn't going to make it any bloody easier to stop."

"Who said anything about stopping?"

Newt sighs, "that's just like you, isn't it? A minute ago you didn't know what the shuck I was talking about and now you're throwing yourself into it head on."

It's true, and Thomas knows it. He has no idea what he's doing, and normally, that's not really an inhibiting factor in his decision making process, but something about the way Newt is looking at him makes him hesitate. He bites his lip, Newt flushes, exhaling hard through his nose, like he's on the cusp of breaking some awful news.

"Show me," Thomas blurts. "Show me what I'm throwing myself into."

Newt kisses him again, hard, with purpose, his hands sliding down Thomas's chest to the clasp of his pants. He unfastens them neatly, quickly, reaching inside to palm Thomas through his underwear.

"Just like that?" Thomas pulls out of the kiss with a squeak, his eyes fluttering closed in spite of himself. "No…I don't know, build—build-up or anything."

"There are people asleep all around us," Newt whispers, his lips ducking to Thomas's neck. "We've got minutes until some shank has to use the bathroom and stumbles right over us."

"Right," Thomas bites back a groan, fumbling with the front of Newt's pants, unthinking. Newt's hand feels too good against him, too warm and purposeful and steady, and he wants to return the favor. "No build-up."

Newt groans into his neck when Thomas's hand brushes across him. He's hard, and the feeling brings Thomas a strange thrill he's somehow sure he's never felt before. This isn't old hat flailing over roots that don't exist anymore, this is entirely new, entirely intoxicating. He fumbles with the waistband of Newt's underwear, slipping his hand underneath and gripping Newt fully. The boy swears, shuddering under Thomas's touch.

"No bloody build-up at all," his voice is an octave lower than normal, husky and deep in a way that resonates in Thomas's chest.

He bucks against Newt's touch, "I don't think either of us need build-up."

"Slim it, Tommy," he nearly growls, his hand suddenly around Thomas, pumping rhythmically, like he knows what he's doing. Thomas tries to make up for his shaking hands with sincerity, clumsily kissing the sweaty side of Newt's neck. Newt groans under his breath and Thomas shudders, hips twitching in spite of himself against Newt's hand.

It's building, something familiar, guttural, and still entirely new and exciting. Newt gasps and tenses suddenly, back rigid, grip tight. Thomas follows two strokes behind with a shuddering moan, his eyes squinted so tightly shut that he sees blazing sparks behind his eyelids.

They stay there for a minute, arms tangled together, Newt's forehead against the side of Thomas's neck, sweat slicked and too warm. The log bench is hard under Thomas's seat, his toes tingling slightly as they fall asleep, his blood occupied elsewhere. Newt pulls back first, staring at him fondly for a second before leaning in and kissing him, a slow, warm contact that's more tender than arousing.

"We can call that an introduction," Newt pulls back with a shrug.

"It definitely made me want more."

"Get some sleep, Tommy," Newt claps him on the shoulder. "See you in the morning."

"Yeah," Thomas fixes the front of his pants, adjusting his shirt across his chest. Everything is sticky, he feels grimy in a way that's entirely different from the normal daily dirt that comes from living in the glade. "You too. I…" He thinks about kissing Newt goodnight, about stepping forward and placing his hand on Newt's jawline and pulling their lips together. His eyes flick to Newt's mouth and a strange, feeble impression of the heat they just shared furls in Thomas's chest.

Newt grins at him, "that's flattering, but go to bed. We'll talk about it when you're not bloody sleep deprived."

"Right," Thomas wipes his palms on his pants, pointing at the homestead, "I'm going to go uh, take a shower, actually, it's a bit—sticky. Yeah. See you tomorrow."

Newt waves him off with half a smile, turning back to the embers of the fire.


End file.
